


Darkness Eternal

by Xazien



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-17 09:58:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5864824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xazien/pseuds/Xazien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loranil, a Dalish warrior, has been given his latest mission after joining The Inquisition: join a mismatched band of Inquisition agents to defend a small Orlesian town from darkspawn raids. Little does he know that these raids are the precursor to something much larger, and that his ragtag band of misfits are the one thing that stands between the world and another darkspawn threat worse than any Blight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Agents of the Inquisition

Sergeant Bartis,

With the forces of The Inquisition stretched thin in the build-up to our marching on The Arbor Wilds, we are having to rely more and more on groups of Inquisition agents to handle basic peacekeeping duties across Orlais and Ferelden. In light of your recent promotion I am hereby placing you in charge of a small band of handpicked Inquisition agents. You will be dispatched to various areas across Orlais to deal with minor threats, and I expect a swift and efficient resolution to all situations faced. All major developments are to be reported to Skyhold immediately.

For your first mission I am sending you and your team to a small town in The Dales called Val Entacher. It has been fortunate enough to avoid both the civil war and the conflict with Corypheus but has recently been beset by darkspawn raids, raids that the village militia have been handling but have been growing by the day. Your men are to eliminate the darkspawn and maintain a presence in the village, keeping in safe from the darkspawn until a full force can be brought in to destroy the darkspawn at the source.

Fair fortune,

Commander Cullen

***

Loranil’s feet were killing him, and the heavy pack on his shoulders was killing him. He was used to long travels, having been a Dalish his entire life, but never carrying this much military equipment. They hadn’t stopped for rest once, and Loranil’s water pouch was almost empty. Still, the village wasn’t far now. Soon it would just be a brief skirmish with some darkspawn before a nice long rest.

Deep down, Loranil worried their commander wouldn’t allow them anything resembling a rest. Sergeant Altraeso Bartis was a gruff, thickset man who didn’t accept any challenge to his newly-earned authority. Any protest of tiredness had been completely ignored, and the burly soldier shouted down anyone who questioned his orders. It was hard to believe he’d only just been promoted. He seemed completely accustomed to giving orders.

Loranil had been worried about being picked on, being the only Dalish in the group, but there wasn’t much in the way of a status quo in this team. The Inquisition must truly be spread thin, Loranil realised, to put together such a mismatched group.

The team member Loranil identified with most was Abbas, the Avvar archer. They were both men of the wilds, after all, although Abbas and his Avvar culture were certainly quite different to Loranil and his Dalish life. Abbas was from the Red-Lion Hold of Avvar, a hold that he had reluctantly left after they’d become what he called a ‘war-worshipping cult’ and settled in the Frostback Basin. He’d served in the Ferelden army before joining The Inquisition but hadn’t let go of his Avvar culture. He was always head-to-toe in black-and-white striped war paint, and his bow was the same one he’d used among his people. Loranil respected him. It took a lot to walk away from your people, and even more to still try and live like them afterwards.

If Abbas was the one Loranil got on with the best, then Mastrick was the other extreme. Loranil hated the loud, arrogant Ferelden mercenary, always chanting tavern songs and dangerously brandishing his greatsword whenever he felt he wasn’t being given attention. The man was a dumb sellsword who’d only joined The Inquisition for the coin, and he’d wasted no time in pushing Loranil around. Amazingly, he didn’t do it because Loranil was an elf. He did it because he was short, for all the reasons. Humans never failed to surprise him, although the dim-witted Mastrick was hardly a prime example of the human race.

The other mercenary in the team was Maras. A Tal-Vashoth from Kirkwall, Maras had headed south to join The Inquisition after growing bored of fighting minor skirmishes for unimportant figures. The Tal-Vashoth was good with a blade and dependable in a fight, but kept himself to himself. He rarely spoke, often relying on simple gestures and one-word answers. Loranil liked him. Men like Mastrick, who talked and talked all day, weren’t worth listening to. Men like Maras only ever spoke when they had something important to say.

Bringing up the rear was someone Loranil had tried very hard to avoid: Chevalier Lord Henri DuMarque de la Verendrye, a noble Orlesian Chevalier who’d joined The Inquisition after Grand Duke Gaspard had become Emperor. The Chevalier had made it very, very clear that he was here to serve Orlais, not The Inquisition, and regularly reminded everyone of his status as a Chevalier and his loyalty to his nation. He’d been as rude to Loranil as was to be expected but had elected instead to spend most of his time with his nose in the air, making a show of ignoring everyone. A habit of his, likely one designed to end undesirable conversations as soon as possible, was to refer to everyone in the team with insulting terms instead of names. Loranil, of course was ‘knife-ear’. Mastrick was ‘dog-lord’. Maras was ‘oxman’. Abbas had drawn the short straw with ‘vile savage goat-herding mountain-dwelling pig’.

The final member of their team was an Inquisition mage named Jarther Slaction. Slaction was a former member of the Montsimmard Circle and renowned arcane academic with very little field experience, as was made obvious by the large bag of books he’d packed at the expense of dry clothes and spare rations. He’d been with The Inquisition since The Conclave, content to use Haven and then Skyhold as a place to continue his academic research after the loss of the Circles. While hardly the ideal candidate for fighting darkspawn, he would more than likely get himself killed in The Arbor Wilds without having been any use to anyone. At least on this mission he could provide healing magic, potions, tonics, grenades and advice. He, along with Sergeant Bartis, had avoided gaining an offensive nickname from Henri DuMarque. Perhaps he saw their Inquisition uniforms as signs that they were respectable men, not mercenaries or tribesmen.

“Your Commander Cullen wanted me to lead a raid on a bandit camp in Ferelden,” drawled DuMarque, practically spitting out the word ‘Ferelden’. “But I would not go. I serve Orlais, not The Inquisition, not the Dog-Lords. The only blood I will prevent the spilling of is pure Orlesian blood, for it is the only blood worth preserving.”

“Oh piss on it, you limp-arse Orlesian cock,” Mastrick groaned, belching deliberately at DuMarque. Loranil could see DuMarque’s expression of disgust even with that ridiculous mask on.

“You may mock, Dog-Lord,” DuMarque continued. “But my family...”

Loranil ignored the two bickering warriors. They’d been at it the whole journey with no signs of stopping, and he had no interest in hearing them argue. Neither Ferelden nor Orlais meant much to him when put in the perspective of the whole world. That was what was at risk here, what The Inquisition was fighting to save. Granted, their current mission was hardly world-shaking, but it was one of many small-scale operations that made The Inquisition incredible. They never forgot about the little people. They helped in every way they could.

“The village we’re to protect is just up ahead,” Sergeant Bartis barked back at them. “Weapons at the ready, men. Don’t even touch the creatures with your bare hands, the last thing we need is the Taint spreading through the ranks.”

As the group drew their weapons they passed over a small rise and saw the town below them. Val Entacher was a small village, nothing but a few cottages and a mill. A makeshift fence had been set up around the town made from spiked wooden poles, poles upon which several darkspawn were impaled. From where they were positioned, Loranil could see a small band of hurlocks bearing down on the village. There was but a dozen darkspawn but Loranil could see only four village militia standing to fight them. They needed their help.

“Avvar, you fire on them to provide a distraction,” Bartis ordered. “Qunari, you stay here with him. Once he’s drawn a few darkspawn away from the main group, you protect him in case they get too close. Mastrick, Chevalier DuMarque, stand with the village militia. Elf, you and I will loop around and attack the beasts from behind. Mage, stay out of sight. We need you for healing, not fighting.”

Everyone in the group nodded, accepting their orders. Loranil bristled slightly at being called ‘elf’. Living among the Dalish his whole life, he hadn’t grown used to insults from Shemlen. He didn’t plan on getting used to them either.

Loranil followed Bartis in looping around to face the village as the others took their own positions. Abbas fired off a couple of shots, one of which struck a hurlock in the head, and two darkspawn broke off from the main group to charge at the Avvar archer. Mastrick and DuMarque reached the village militia and drew their blades, standing with the militia as the darkspawn grew closer.

“Now!” Bartis cried, and he charged forwards. Loranil dashed to catch up with him as the Inquisition soldier ran at the darkspawn. He’d timed it well: by the time they got there the darkspawn would be caught between their blades and those of the village militia.

Loranil reached the darkspawn and lunged forwards with his longsword, impaling one of the creatures through the abdomen and whipping the blade out as the hurlock fell to the floor. Gasping, Loranil ducked as Mastrick’s greatsword swung through the air and decapitated several darkspawn, nearly killing him too. Mastrick’s cruel laugh told him that he’d meant for that to happen.

By the time Loranil had gotten back on his feet the darkspawn were dead, the combined efforts of the agents and militia making short work of them. Abbas, Slaction and Maras rejoined the group as they cleaned off their blades and accepted thanks from the militia. Mastrick, DuMarque and Bartis accepted thanks, anyway. The others were ignored.

“Thank you so much for your intervention,” one of the militiamen praised Bartis. “Capitaine Cheval, at your service. Head of what is left of this militia.”

“Are you in charge here, Capitaine?” DuMarque said, an air of authority about his words. “We wish to speak to whoever is in charge here, so we may receive the appropriate reward for our services.”

“That will not be necessary,” Bartis interjected as Cheval was about to speak. “Simply direct us to the head of this village and we’ll settle in to prepare to defend the town from the next raid.”

“That would be me.”

The agents turned to see an elegant, elderly woman gliding out of a small house in the village, smiling warmly. She dismissed Capitaine Cheval and the militia with a simple gesture and held out her hand, allowing DuMarque to kiss it.

“I am Madame Etienne,” the woman introduced herself. “Head of what is left of this village. There are but a few of us left, and the militia you fought with are all the defence we had until now. The darkspawn raids have been growing and growing in number, and we beg for your continued support.”

“We are here to help, Madame,” Bartis bowed politely. “May we rest for a while, in order to prepare for the next assault?”

“Of course, Monsieur,” Etienne simpered. “First, please do meet the rest of my village.”

As if on cue, a few simple villagers left the houses in which they’d been hiding. They were simple-looking men, with cheap clothes and sullen faces. They must have been enduring for a while, and taken heavy losses. There were barely a dozen men left. The group went around shaking the hands of the villagers, half of them refusing to touch Loranil. He didn’t mind, he was more focussed on something else.

“Where are all the women?” Loranil realised, looking at the villagers. Other than Madame Etienne, every last villager was a man. The troubled looks on their faces told him the reason behind this was a sinister one.

“They take our women,” Capitaine Cheval said, appearing again to stand by Madame Etienne. “Every time the darkspawn have made it into the village they’ve gone for our women. They kill every man they see, but not a single drop of female blood has been spilt on this soil. They drag them away, back to whatever hell-pit they came from. Had Madame Etienne not been receiving my personal guarding, she’d have been taken long ago with the rest of them.”

Loranil looked around the village at the haggard faces of the men. They’d suffered for so long, each one losing a wife, a mother, a daughter. The darkspawn were vile. While he took in the expressions of the villagers, however, he didn’t fail to notice the lithe and shadowy figure slinking around near the back of the village.

“Men, rest up,” Bartis ordered. “Familiarise yourself with the village. Dismissed.”

Loranil smiled and nodded at the villagers as he made his way to the far end of the village, where he’d seen the shadowy figure. DuMarque was already telling Madame Etienne about his exploits and accomplishments, and most of the others were heading for the tavern.

“Where are you going, tree-lover?”

Loranil turned to see Mastrick standing there, a cocky smile on his face. The mercenary sauntered over to him, greatsword over his shoulder, spitting as he went.

“Just going for a walk, Mastrick,” Loranil said warily. “Go to the tavern with the others.”

“You’re giving me orders, you short-arsed little knife-ear?” Mastrick laughed, moving to shove Loranil. Loranil easily sidestepped the push, chuckling as Mastrick stumbled forwards and went red in the face.

“Why you little-” Mastrick ran at Loranil but before he could take one step a bucket fell from the roof of the house next to them and hit him on the head. The mercenary swayed slightly before flopping to the ground.

Loranil looked up to see a small, dark-skinned elven woman laughing her head off on the roof of the building. She hopped down from the roof and grabbed Mastrick, pouring water from her pouch onto the mercenary’s face. Mastrick’s eyes flickered open.

“Go to the tavern, you arse,” the elf laughed. Mastrick picked himself up, shooting a look back at them, and stumbled away. The elf turned to Loranil and shook his hand enthusiastically.

“Name’s Valetta,” the elf said with a smile. “What’s yours?”

“I’m Loranil,” Loranil introduced himself. “Do you live here? You sound Ferelden.”

“Yep,” Valetta said proudly. “Ferelden all my life, moved to the village to find work after my old master got himself blown up at The Conclave. Not that they’d acknowledge me. One of the only women left in the village and they spend all their time fawning over Madame Old-Arse. Could use some male attention, if you know what I mean.” Valetta shrieked with laughter and ran back up onto the roof, still laughing as she went. “See you around, Lorry. Back soon!”

Loranil shrugged as the elf darted off across the rooftops. She seemed like an odd character, but it was good to see another elf again after so long. Smiling to himself, he made his way over to the tavern. Maybe this job wouldn’t be so bad.

***

“Best we can tell, the darkspawn are coming from an old mine about half a mile away from the village,” Capitaine Cheval reported. “We don’t have the manpower to take them out at the source, especially seeing as we’d leave the village defenceless.”

Sergeant Bartis poured over a map of the area, making a big deal of going ‘hmm’ a lot. The other agents sat around the table, DuMarque scoffing every time someone made a suggestion.

“Is this some kind of fort?” Bartis said curiously, pointing at a spot on the map listed as ‘Guerrier Keep’. “Why haven’t you taken refuge there?”

“The fort has been occupied,” Madame Etienne sneered. “A force of bandits and thieves have seized the fort and refused to allow us entry or grant us assistance. They’re a band of lunatics and fools who’ve allowed good people to die for their petty, Maker-hating beliefs.”

“These bandits oppose his holiness The Maker?” DuMarque cried, with a little too much outrage for it to be believable. “We must bring these men to justice.”

“They called themselves The Imathger,” Capitaine Cheval sighed. “They fancy themselves as a tribe, covering themselves in war paint and praising gods they made up yesterday. They’re nothing but a bunch of Ferelden bandits and thugs who’ve heard too many children’s stories about Avvar and Chasind, who showed up a week before the raids started and declared this land theirs. Their leader, a man who simply calls himself The General, is a mockery of a chieftain who seeks only approval and obedience from his occult followers.”

“I’m sure The Inquisition could persuade these men to co-operate against the darkspawn...” Bartis mused. “We could strike the darkspawn at the source, but I doubt we present a large enough force to destroy the threat. It sounds to me like an entrance to the Deep Roads has opened up. We will need explosives. Are there any in the village?”

“No,” Cheval replied. “If there are explosives anywhere, it’ll be at the fort. If you believe you can convince these fools to part with their resources, I would welcome it.”

Bartis opened his mouth to speak before being interrupted by a cry outside the tavern. A young boy dashed inside, red in the face from running. Madame Etienne moved to comfort him but he simply opened his mouth and yelled.

“The darkspawn! They’re coming! A bigger group this time!”

As the boy collapsed into a chair next to him, Loranil and the other Inquisition agents drew their blades. It was time to fight.


	2. The General

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loranil and the other Inquisition agents must protect the Orlesian town of Val Entacher from darkspawn raids, but with the ever-increasing number of darkspawn they must seek outside help from The Imathger, the 'tribe' living in the fort overlooking the village.

Loranil followed the others as they dashed towards the edge of the village. They could see a small band of darkspawn dashing towards them, hissing and spitting. A group like this could destroy the village, but it was nothing the Inquisition agents couldn’t handle.

“Avvar, get onto the tavern roof and provide covering fire!” Sergeant Bartis barked at Abbas, who begrudgingly complied. “Mastrick, DuMarque, Qunari, with me! We attack the horde directly. Mage, you stay back in case one of us needs healing. Elf, you protect him.”

Loranil sighed as he watched Bartis, Mastrick, DuMarque and Maras run off to fight the horde as he stood by Jarther Slaction, sword half-heartedly raised. He knew he wouldn’t be needed, that much was clear by how quickly the others were dispatching the darkspawn. Within minutes the small darkspawn pack was slain, and Loranil had barely drawn his blade.

“Good work, men,” Bartis congratulated everyone as he walked back into the village to the sound of cheering villagers. Bartis walked over to the applauding Madame Etienne and Capitaine Cheval, motioning for them to join him in the tavern.

“We did it!” Mastrick cheered, waving his sword in the air as the villagers whooped and cheered, crowding around both him and DuMarque and shaking their hands. Loranil, Abbas, Slaction and Maras were ignored. Slowly, the various Inquisition agents headed off into the tavern, leaving Loranil outside.

“Well that ain’t fair.”

Loranil smiled and looked up to see Valetta sitting on the roof above him, twirling a dagger in her hand. She hopped down to join him, shooting an irritated look at the villagers that were entering the tavern.

“No point in bringing you along if they ain’t gonna use you,” Valetta sneered. “Damn typical humans. Damn typical military types. Hate them all. Should give you a chance to get that sword dirty. You like getting dirty, Lorry?” Valetta laughed hysterically at Loranil’s shocked expression. “Oh, your face... come on, Lorry. Those humans clearly don’t want to play nice. How about you and me hang out for a bit? Come on. Fancy going for a drink? Try and match all the glares the humans in the tavern shoot you, it’ll be a proper laugh.”

***

Loranil and Valetta sat in the tavern, laughing and giggling and drinking cheap, watery ale.

“Creators, life away from the clan is...” Loranil stifled a laugh. “I can eat food I didn’t have to kill and cook myself. I can talk to humans. Dwarves and Qunari too. I can even wear proper boots, not go around barefoot!” Loranil laughed, Valetta joining in. “Creators, it’s perfect. I never thought I’d enjoy The Inquisition so much.”

Valetta grinned and leant back in her chair. “Maker’s arse, can’t say I like the sound of your clan. Now, let me tell you about this one time I farted at a Teyrn...”

Loranil and Valetta drank, laughed and told each other impossible stories, all while giggling at the scathing looks shot at them by the villagers and, on more than one occasion, Mastrick and DuMarque. The mercenary and Chevalier would have most likely spent the whole day sneering at them if they hadn’t been so busy sneering at each other. Finally, when the last mug of ale had been drunk, Loranil looked up to see Sergeant Bartis walking out of the back of the tavern, followed by Capitaine Cheval and Madame Etienne.

“Men, listen up!” Bartis announced. “Myself, the Capitaine and Madame Etienne have made a decision. The other Inquisition agents and I will be departing swiftly to meet with The Imathger, the ‘tribe’ that live in the fort near the town.”

“You can’t do that!” a villager cried. “You’ll leave the town defenceless!”

“Not so,” Bartis reassured him. “Myself, Chevalier DuMarque, Serah Slaction and our Avvar companion will go to meet with The General and his people to seek aid. Meanwhile Mastrick, the Qunari and the elf will stay behind to defend the village, accompanied by Capitaine Cheval and his militia.”

The villagers bristled slightly, but seemed to accept the terms. Loranil felt bitter about not being chosen to go with them, but at least he hadn’t been the only one. Plus, he may finally get a chance to see some real action.

***

Loranil was still waiting for action to present itself. He’d spent ages lounging around in the village, chatting with Valetta while Mastrick paraded around flexing his muscles and Maras kept himself to himself.

“Nevermind, Lorry,” Valetta said, patting him on the shoulder. “We can go find something else to kill. What about him?” She nodded at Mastrick, who had suddenly decided to start doing press-ups as soon as Madame Etienne had walked past him. She seemed uninterested to say the least, and Loranil knew the elderly woman was hardly Mastrick’s type. He just enjoyed showing off, especially in front of women. Valetta, however, had been ignored. That lump on Mastrick’s head from where the bucket had hit him still looked sore.

“If only,” Loranil sighed. He turned to speak to Valetta but she was gone. He looked up to see her clambering onto the rooftop above him.

“Come on, Lorry!” Valetta said excitedly. “Come have a go!” She stuck her hand down to Loranil, who took it in his with a smile. That smile was replaced with a pained expression as Valetta yanked him up onto the roof, almost dislocating his elbow.

“You can see so much... stuff, up here,” Valetta said dreamily, watching a raven fly from the village and off into the distance. “So many... trees... and... um... stuff. It’s great, you know? I love being up here. Makes me feel tall.”

“Yes, it’s... lovely...” Loranil stammered as he haphazardly crawled over to join her. “A bit... high. But nevermind. Is that...?”

Loranil pointed to a small, dark shape in the distance, just beyond the trees. It looked like a cave.

“That’s the mine,” Valetta said. “That what the darkspawn come from. Nasty old place, most folks thought it was collapsed before the beasties busted out. They creep out of the mine and run into the forest, then jump out and attack when we least expect it.”

Loranil looked at the mine with a sense of dread. Even from this distance it made his stomach churn.

“Oi, you two knife-ears!”

Loranil clenched his fists as he looked down to see Mastrick below them.

“The Captain says he spotted a few darkspawn lurking around the forest,” Mastrick barked up at them. “Dalish, you come down here and get ready to fight. Your whore can stay up there for all I care. Shame the only decent woman left in this pisshole is a knife-ear.”

Angrily, Loranil hopped off of the roof, preparing to teach Mastrick a lesson, but by the time he’d gotten down the mercenary had already drawn his blade and left to stand with Maras and the militia.

“Don’t get all mad over him,” Valetta said with a sneer as she leapt down, drawing her daggers. “Reckon you could use a hand? I’m here to help.”

***

Sergeant Bartis knocked on the door of Guerrier Keep, DuMarque, Abbas and Slaction by his side. The fort appeared to be empty, but they’d all seen the few war-painted Imathger parading the battlements who’d hidden when they’d seen them coming. Bartis sighed and went to knock again before a man in a hood that covered his face stuck his head over the battlements.

“Who trespasses on this sacred ground?” the Imathger cried down. “You step upon the holy lands blessed by The Conductor and The Prophet, lands that serve to birth the Nephilim and...”

“Yes, yes, very nice,” Bartis said impatiently. “I am Sergeant Bartis of The Inquisition, and I seek an audience with The General.”

“You must first face the trials before walking these hallowed grounds!” the doorman cried. “You must endure blood, fire and... wait... wait... ok, I’ve been told to let you in. Give me a second.”

The doorman bent down and pulled a lever. There was a grinding of cogs as the door swung open, revealing a group of heavily armed men all dressed the same as the doorman: covered head to toe in animal skins and body paint.

“Disgusting...” Abbas muttered as the group entered the keep, shooting a withering glare at the Imathger. The ‘tribesmen’ were looking at Abbas in awe. He was everything they wanted to be. Everything they’d never be. Good. These men were a mockery of Avvar culture.

“You will be brought to stand before The General,” one of the Imathger declared.

DuMarque made a big show of sighing and brushing rudely past Bartis and the others to face the Imathger.

“Enough of your barbarism and posing,” DuMarque said accusingly. “I am Chevalier Lord Henri DuMarque de la Verendrye and I demand an audience with your leader.”

The Imathger glanced at each other, confused. Clearly they hadn’t existed long enough to think up what to in this situation. Finally, the group parted to make way for the Inquisition agents. DuMarque tutted and strode forwards, followed by Bartis, Slaction and Abbas. Bartis was fast-walking in an attempt to reclaim his place at the front of the group. Finally, the group made it to the throne room of the fortress. It was there that they saw The General.

The General was a hideous sight. He was enormously fat, barely managing to stay balanced upon his throne as his rolls spilled over the side of the chair, with bloodshot and piggy little eyes. He too was dressed head to toe in animal skins, but there must have been the skins of an entire herd of rams to make his outfit. A scraggly, dirty beard hung from his multiple chins like a weed. Upon seeing he had guests, The General opened his mouth to greet them and show his rotten black teeth.

“Guests of Guerrier Keep!” The General boomed. One of the Imathger leant over to whisper in his ear and The General corrected himself. “I mean, trespasser among the Imathger! You walk upon the sacred ground of-”

“Enough of this prattling,” DuMarque scoffed. “You, large man. As agents of The Inquisition, we demand-”

There was a scuffle as Bartis made it to the front of the group and attempted to push past DuMarque. The two engaged in a small wrestling match before Bartis finally managed to push DuMarque aside and stand before The General.

“General,” Bartis bowed politely. “I am Sergeant Bartis of The Inquisition, leader of this group.” He shot a look back at DuMarque. “We come to you to request aid. Darkspawn besiege the town of Val Entacher and the people there desperately need your aid. We need soldiers to help defend the town, or shelter in the fortress for the villagers. Failing that, we could use a few explosives. We need to destroy the mine from which the darkspawn are emerging.”

The General shook his head. “We refuse. Why should we help you? The Prophet-” The Imathger next to The General elbowed him, and The General shook his head. “I mean, the people of Val Entacher are heathens! They do not follow our ways, why should we help them?”

“You made up ‘your ways’ about a week ago,” Abbas muttered, just loud enough for a few Imathger to hear.

“The people down there have not yet gotten used to... your ways,” Bartis faltered. “I... I’m sure if you were to properly open negotiation...”

“No!” The General cried. “The sacred will of... I... the people of Val Entacher will receive no aid from us! Begone!” The General attempted to gesture for them to leave but swinging his beefy arm almost made him topple from his throne. As the Imathger ran to properly balance their General, Bartis and the others turned to leave.

***

The Dark Wolf made his way up to Skyhold’s Rookery, greeting Spymaster Leliana with a curt nod.

“Word from a contact, ma’am,” the Dark Wolf reported, handing Leliana a note. Leliana took it and scanned over it briefly, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Hmm...” the Spymaster murmured carefully. “So Corypheus has been shipping supplies to this region of The Dales? Why? It’s nowhere near The Arbor Wilds. Have you managed to discern what supplies are being transported?”

“Not yet,” the Dark Wolf replied. “All my contacts could tell me was that the Red Templars have been moving supplies to somewhere in this area. I believe the nearest occupied settlement in the region is a village called ‘Val Entacher’.”

“Val Entacher...” Leliana mused. “I know that name. Commander Cullen recently dispatched a small group of agents to that village. They’re to protect it from darkspawn raids.”

Leliana placed the note on her desk and picked up a quill and small roll of parchment, dismissing the Dark Wolf with a wave. Commander Cullen’s agents should hear of this. Their simple mission may be a little more important than they might think.


	3. Blood and Damnation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Imathger have refused to help The Inquisition defend Val Entacher, and Loranil and Valetta left almost alone to defend the village from the largest darkspawn horde yet

The Imathger watchman stood upon the battlements of Guerrier Keep, bow in hand, eyes gazing up at the bright blue sky and the flocks of birds that danced around the sun. He smiled as he saw the raven, flying low over the forest and over the keep.

_The bird is a threat,_ whispered the voice in his head that was not his own. The voice glared at the bird through his eyes, sneered at it with his face, nocked an arrow into the bow with his hands.

_Kill the bird,_ the voice commanded. _Shoot it down. It is obscene. It passes a message from those who wish to destroy the new order of The Conductor to those who seek to undermine the toils of The Prophet. Kill it._

Slowly, the watchman raised his bow and fired. The arrow sailed smoothly through the air and struck the raven, killing it instantly. The watchman smiled as it gracefully fell from the sky, its wings outstretched as if it were still in flight.

_Go. Find it,_ the voice commanded. _Collect the message it carried. Find out what they know._

***

“There are... more darkspawn than I was expecting.”

Loranil and Valetta stood with the militia and agents and stared in shock at the horde that stood before them. There were dozens of them, pacing around the clearing hissing and snarling at the village. Loranil felt Valetta’s shaking hand grab his and he clenched his fist. This was like nothing he’d ever faced before.

“Their behaviour is... strange...” Madame Etienne noted, watching the horde. She was right. The darkspawn weren’t attacking yet, they hadn’t even approached the village. They were content to hiss and snarl and spit. They were trying to scare them.

“They seem more cleverer,” Mastrick said, squinting in an attempt to look intelligent.

“The idiot is right,” Maras said. Mastrick smiled, then realised what the Qunari had said. The Fereldan mercenary tried to argue but Maras simply shoved his thick, grey finger against Mastrick’s lips.

“Look at them,” Maras continued. “They’re more organised. They’re still mindless beasts, but there is a glimmer of intelligence in them. They’re following some kind of basic instruction, trying to make us scared before they attack. I... have never seen darkspawn behave this way before.”

“Perhaps they are trying to draw us out into the open,” Capitaine Cheval said. “Surround and slaughter us. Either way, it does not matter. We are not strong enough to charge them. We will die. There are not enough of us to split off to distract then flank them. We will die. There is no hope for us.”

Mastrick scoffed and Maras sighed, Cheval shooting glares at them. The militia began bickering about ideas, Cheval, Maras and Mastrick started arguing, Etienne tried to mediate and soon everyone was arguing about what to do. All while Loranil and Valetta stood there and the darkspawn leered and hissed.

“We could fall back.”

Everyone stopped, turning to stare at Loranil. The elf stood there sheepishly as the others shot him scrutinising glares. That was until Madame Etienne spoke up.

“Do go on, young man.”

“Well, I...” Loranil stuttered. Valetta squeezed his hand and he felt a surge of courage. “We fall back into the main village. The darkspawn will follow us in, chase us, and then we’ll have the advantage. We know the layout of the village. We can use the area to our advantage, co-ordinate better. We can take them out in small groups rather than face the whole horde as one.”

Mastrick rolled his eyes and Maras looked troubled, but Etienne and Cheval nodded to each other and smiled.

“You’ve saved us, young man,” Cheval smiled, shaking Loranil’s hand. “Everyone!” he cried. “Fall back into the main village. Try and take them by surprise if you can, and protect Madame Etienne and the non-combatants.”

As the militia fell back into the village, Mastrick with them, Maras went up to Loranil and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You are a cunning warrior, Loranil,” Maras said. “And worthy of my respect. I only wish others could see past a pair of pointed ears.” And with that, the Qunari went off to join the others.

“Ayyyyyyy!” Valetta cheered. “You did it! Come on, Lorry. We’re gonna kill stuff. Looking forward to it.”

***

The darkspawn crept around the empty village, their black eyes scanning for prey. They sniffed at the air, desperate to pick up a scent, to find, kill, purge.

_The last woman_ , the voice whispered in their heads. _Find me the last woman. Kill others you find. But bring me the last woman. She is needed._

One darkspawn sniffed at the air again and smelt something, something delicious, something fresh. The darkspawn crept around the back of a small house, blade raised and teeth bared, waiting for-

Loranil leapt out from behind a crate and swung his sword, taking the darkspawn’s head from its shoulders. The creature’s body slumped silently to the ground and Loranil ducked back behind the crate as he saw three more darkspawn turn around a corner. As soon as they appear Mastrick cut down one of them and Valetta leapt from a roof, a dagger in each hand, impaling the other two as she landed on them.

Loranil and Valetta smiled and nodded at each other as they got back in position. As Loranil was walking back to his crate he saw Capitaine Cheval dispatch a hurlock with his blade across the village.

_You are being hunted,_ the voice told the darkspawn. _The heretics still walk here. They still fight us. Hunt them. Make them feel true pain and fear. And find me the woman. She must be taken._

The darkspawn were more frantic now, charging around buildings hissing and knocking things over. They knew something was after them. That something was killing them. Loranil heard a cry for help that was quickly cut off and knew that one of the non-militia villagers had been found.

“Now!” Loranil cried. “Attack!”

On his cue, the militia and agents burst from their hiding spots and charged the darkspawn, cutting down a dozen of them in the first strike. Loranil and Valetta ran into the blacksmiths and attacked three of the creatures, cutting down two of them and throwing the other into the furnace. Valetta killed a hurlock that had charged in to attack them and the two elves ran outside to continue the fight.

“Help!”

Loranil turned with shock to see Madame Etienne being lifted onto the shoulders of several hurlocks, kicking and screaming as the creatures carried her away. A militia member tried to save her and was cut down immediately.

“Madame Etienne!” Loranil cried. “I’m coming!”

A hurlock charged at Loranil but he dodged it, running straight for Etienne. He held his sword high, preparing to strike down her darkspawn captors and-

There was a sharp, sudden pain on the back of his head.

And then nothing.

***

Loranil groaned as he came to, blinking at the bright sunlight and rubbing the sore lump on the back of his head. He became aware of the damp grass below him and pulled himself up, looking with confusion at the people around him.

“You,” Mastrick seethed. “You have a lot to answer for.”

Loranil pulled himself up as the fuming mercenary stormed towards him, sword raised, but before Mastrick could take another step Sergeant Bartis had dived in front of him and pushed him back.

“Stay in line, soldier,” Bartis ordered. “Save it for the report.” He turned to Loranil. “We just got back from Guerrier Keep. We found the village in a... worse state than when we left it.”

Loranil looked around him in shock. There were six bodies lying on the ground: four villagers, two militia. One of the militia, Loranil noted with horror, was Capitaine Cheval. The Capitaine had a stab wound in his back.

“Six dead,” Bartis said with a flat tone. “Four civilians. And Madame Etienne was taken. I hear that you came up with this plan. Is there anything you have to say?”

“He saved all you ungrateful bastards!”

Everyone turned to see Valetta pointing at Bartis angrily, something the Sergeant clearly didn’t take kindly to.

“You and your fancy Inquisition mates left us to go chat to a bunch of loonies in the keep,” Valetta mocked. “We got attacked. Lorry came up with a plan. We did his plan and some people died. If we hadn’t, everyone would have died.”

“Hold your tongue, elf,” Bartis said coldly. “Everyone, the situation is dire. We don’t have the manpower to handle an attack like that again, not with Cheval dead and Maras wounded.” Loranil saw Maras standing by the tavern, his shoulder bandaged.

“So what?” Valetta asked. “Are your loony tribe mates gonna come and help? No? Thought not.”

“The Imathger were... uncooperative, yes,” Bartis said. “But I believe we have a plan. Myself, Mastrick, the Avvar and Slaction are going to go into the mine where the darkspawn are hiding out. We will save Madame Etienne if we can, and then Slaction will use his magic to bring down the mine shaft. Meanwhile, Chevalier Lord DuMarque will stay in the village and lead the defence effort. ALL villagers will now take part in the militia. Our wounded Qunari and two elven friends will also stay in the village, not that they’ll be of much help.” Bartis glared at Loranil.

“That has got to be the worst plan...” Valetta muttered under her breath.

“Myself and the others will leave for the mine in an hour,” Bartis informed everyone. “I wish you luck, and I’m sure you wish me the same.”

***

Loranil sat in the tavern staring into an empty flagon while Valetta put her arm around him in comfort. He had done the right thing, he knew he had. If they’d attacked the horde head on they’d have all died. But no-one saw that. All the saw was the Dalish elf who got people killed.

“Listen, I’ve got me a plan,” Valetta said. “It’s a good one.”

“Not now, Valetta,” Loranil sighed. “Creators, I never should have left the clan.”

“What?” Valetta said incredulously. “You hated it there. You said it yourself.”

“Yes,” Loranil sighed. “I hated the life. But... but I miss the people. I miss the Keeper, the Hahren, the Craftsmaster. I miss the other hunters, the Keeper’s First and Second, even all of the Halla. Home isn’t a place, Valetta. It’s the people around you. I’m not accepted in The Inquisition. But I was there.”

Valetta looked down in sadness before holding Loranil’s hand and squeezing it, smiling at him.

“Go on then,” Loranil smiled sadly. “Tell us your plan.”

“Well,” said Valetta. “While old Lord Arsehole out there is posturing...” she nodded at DuMarque, who was lecturing the new militia recruits about how his great uncle invented three different duelling techniques. “I think we should go check out the loony bin.”

“Guerrier Keep?” Loranil asked. “The Imathger don’t want to help, that much is clear. There’s no way we can convince them.”

“I’m not saying talk to them,” Valetta said. “I’m saying spy on them. Come on. A bunch of weird tribey people show up in these parts just before a bunch of darkspawn start killing things? We gotta go check them out. They’re hiding something. It won’t take long, and fancy-pants Mr Lord Man won’t miss us.”

Loranil looked at Valetta, then at DuMarque and the militia. He looked at Maras, who was tending his wound by the edge of the village. He looked at the small patch of grass where Capitaine Cheval’s corpse had been laid.

“I’ll do it,” Loranil said. “If there’s the slightest chance it can make all this better, by the Creators I’ll do it.”


	4. The Pit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergeant Bartis and the other Inquisition agents have left for the abandoned mine to rescue Madame Etienne and destroy the darkspawn, leaving Loranil and Valetta free to investigate The Imathger

“I’m not going down there,” Mastrick eyed the mineshaft with suspicion. “It’s dark.”

Sergeant Bartis gritted his teeth. “Mercenary, I am ordering you to go down there. Our mission is to rescue Madame Etienne and destroy the mineshaft, and I am ordering you to accomplish it. Do I make myself clear?”

“Well I don’t take orders from you,” Mastrick said smugly. “I’m a mercenary. So I can do what I want. So can the painted one.” Mastrick nodded to Abbas, who was examining the rock around the mine shaft.

“Interesting...” Abbas murmured. “This was an iron mine. Strong iron, good for making basic weapons. Why was this ever shut down?”

“Flood,” Bartis replied. “The miner tapped into an underground lake and half of them were drowned. The lake’s still there so no-one has gone anywhere near since. Except the darkspawn.”

“I don’t like it...” Jarther Slaction shook his head. “I sense... I sense something foul in it.”

“Oh for the love of...” Bartis clenched his fist. “Mage, you’re an Inquisition member. You follow my orders. Get in the damned hole.”

“But sir,” Slaction protested. “I... I don’t like confined spaces. Or the dark, or-”

Bartis grabbed Slaction by the collar and strode through the mine, dragged the protesting mage behind him before throwing a squealing Slaction down the mine shaft.

“Did... did you...?” Abbas asked. “Did you... just kill him?”

“Maker, I hope not,” Bartis sighed. “That’s the last thing I need.”

“I’m alright!” Slaction called up from within the mine. “It’s a bit dark, and I think I hit my head a little, but I’m alive! Maker, I’m alive!”

“Hooray,” Bartis said flatly. “Come on, you two,” he gestured to Mastrick and Abbas. “This way.”

Bartis climbed down onto the ladder leading down the mine shaft and slowly climbed down, Mastrick and Abbas following him. The mineshaft was pitch black, the only light source being a ball of flame Slaction had summoned in his hands. As Bartis made it to the bottom of the ladder he found himself shivering and clenching his teeth, glancing nervously around as sounds of shrieking and scuttling echoed throughout the mine.

“This... this is an evil place...” Abbas shuddered as he climbed off the ladder, drawing his bow. “Mountain Father, grant me your blessing as I walk these Tainted halls...”

“We have a mission,” Bartis reminded them all. “Now follow me. We’re not going to rescue anyone by just standing around.”

The group tentatively made their way through the mine, closely huddled together with their weapons drawn. Only Mastrick seemed confident, and the others suspected that was purely because he was too stupid to feel the evil all around them. Or maybe it was just cocky bravado from a man who had to feel like the strongest.

“I sense movement up ahead,” Abbas whispered. “Slight tremors in the ground mean footsteps. A couple of hurlocks, I imagine.”

The group turned the corner and, through the dim light produced by Slaction’s flame, saw two hurlocks. They were pacing around the entrance to a tunnel, black eyes pointed straight ahead.

“They look like they’re patrolling,” Bartis said under his breath. “Impossible. Darkspawn don’t patrol. They don’t do anything. They’re not soldiers, they’re animals.”

“Darkspawn also don’t make organised raids on Orlesian villages,” Abbas replied. “There’s something else going on here.”

Abbas quickly dived out from within the group and fired off two arrows in quick succession at the hurlocks, killing them both within seconds. He then gestured for the group to follow him down the tunnel.

“Actually I’m in charge...” Bartis protested to little avail as Mastrick and Slaction followed the Avvar archer down the tunnel.

“This tunnel is going down,” Slaction noted. “We’re getting deeper into the mine, probably closer to the main darkspawn nest. Are you sure we’re properly equipped to destroy it?”

“Of course,” Bartis assured them. But of course they weren’t, and Bartis knew it. He’d made another stupid, hasty decision and acted like he’d thought it through. He’d sent himself and his men towards certain death and left the village almost completely undefended. But he’d fought tooth and nail to get a command position within The Inquisition. He was going to make the most of it.

They were nearing the end of the tunnel and it was getting steeper with every step they took. They were having to cling on to the tunnel walls to prevent themselves from slipping and rolling their way to the bottom, but at least they hadn’t seen any more darkspawn yet. Quietly, that concerned Bartis. He was always being told that the darkspawn were far more organised than they should be. But what did that mean?

“I think this is the end,” Abbas said as the group reached the end of the tunnel. Abbas glanced around, trying to catch even a glimmer in the darkness. Nothing. No darkspawn, no Madame Etienne. Nothing.

Abbas took a step forward. There was another tunnel in front of them, one that looked like it curved to the right and went down again. They’d be going even deeper into the mine. Even further away from the surface. Abbas sighed heavily and leant up against a wall, catching his breath. This place seemed to be crushing in on him, the hot air choking him and tickling his flesh. It was an evil place.

It was then that Abbas realised that the tickling on his flesh wasn’t just the air. That the wall he was leaning against was shifting. That the hot air around him was actually breath upon his neck.

Too late, Bartis saw Abbas in the dim light. Too late to stop the hurlock from grabbing the Avvar and, in one swift movement, dragging him through the hole in the wall before he even had time to scream.

“Avvar!-” Bartis yelled as Abbas was snatched away and dragged into the darkness. But it was too late. Abbas was gone.

***

The wall to Guerrier Keep was in poor condition, cracked and crumbling away, allowing for plenty of footholds and handholds. It didn’t take long for Loranil and Valetta to climb their way to the top.

“There’s no-one around,” Valetta whispered. “Ain’t even any guards on the walls? Something’s up.”

Loranil and Valetta scrambled their way down the wall and into the fortress. Valetta was right: Guerrier Keep was almost completely abandoned, with no sign of a single Imathger. The two elves tentatively made their way through the fortress, weapons drawn, but there was nothing. No voices in the courtyard, no fires crackling, no birds singing. There were no signs of life, Loranil realised as he and Valetta tiptoed their way to the throne room. It was like everyone there had simple disappeared.

“So the process is complete-”

Loranil and Valetta ducked behind a crate as they heard a voice suddenly pierce the silence. They gripped their blades and prepared for a fight, looking around for the enemy, but there was no-one there.

“The throne room,” Valetta hissed. “It came from the throne room.”

As quietly as they could, Loranil and Valetta stood up and peered through a window into the throne room. A huge, hulking man wrapped in animal skins, a man that could only be The General, sat in the centre of the room with his eyes closed and the tips of his sausage-like index fingers against his temple. He was talking. But there was no-one there to talk to.

“So the last Mother is harvested...” The General said to the empty room, his eyes still closed. “The process is now complete. You have enough? Hmm,” The General nodded, as if considering what someone was saying. “Good. The village can now be destroyed to prevent witnesses, and The Factory can begin mass production. The Imathger have been sent to the village and are waiting for the signal to destroy it. I have remained behind with a bodyguard to... co-ordinate.”

“What’s he talking about?” Loranil whispered to a wide-eyed Valetta. “Who’s he talking to? What is The Factory? Where is this bodyguard?”

“Well,” Valetta said, gulping. “That last question I can answer.”

Valetta dived at Loranil and pinned him to the ground just before an Imathger could strike him with a jagged, rusty blade. The two elves scrambled to the ground to face the tribesman, who was swathed in painted animal skins.

“We’re not looking to fight,” Loranil said tentatively, pointing his blade down. “We’re just looking for information. We just want to-”

The Imathger growled at Loranil and lunged for him but it was a clumsy blow, one Loranil easily dodged. The Imathger’s reckless move gave Valetta the perfect opportunity, and she used it to plunge her two daggers into the Imathger’s chest, right up to the hilt. Valetta then yanked the blades out and kicked the Imathger to the ground.

Then the Imathger got up again.

“Impossible...” Valetta said, aghast, as the Imathger strode towards her with his blade pointed menacingly at her. Loranil swung at the Imathger, parrying a blow meant for Valetta, then followed through with a slash that cut through the animal skin clothing the tribesman was wrapped in. The Imathger snarled and lunged at Loranil in anger but it was another clumsy blow. Valetta easily swung her dagger and cut the Imathger’s hand off, allowing Loranil to charge the Imathger. However, the Dalish warrior had thrown down his sword and instead he grabbed the Imathger’s clothing, tearing it open to reveal a bare chest riddled with glowing red rock.

“You’re infested with red lyrium,” Loranil said, pursing his lips as he stepped back and picked up his sword. “What are you? What are the Imathger?”

The Imathger simply growled again, holding out the stump where his severed hand had been. The Imathger strained, tensing his muscles, and within second another hand made of solid red lyrium had grown. It was then Loranil noticed the two lines of red lyrium on the Imathger’s chest. The stab wounds Valetta had left.

“So you want to play it like that, do you?” Loranil muttered. “Valetta, I have a plan. Go for his legs.”

Steeling herself, Valetta charged at the Imathger and dived down, dodging a swipe from the Imathger’s clawed red lyrium hand. She swiped at his legs, cutting deeply into them and sending the Imathger toppling to the ground. Loranil then dived on the Imathger and shoved his sword through him, pinning the tribesman to the ground. He then grabbed Valetta’s daggers and chopped both of them down onto the Imathger’s neck, severing his head. He then grabbed the head and kicked it over to the other side of the courtyard.

“There,” Loranil said as he pulled out his sword and sheathed it. “That ought to do it.”

***

Loranil and Valetta strode into the throne room where The General sat, muttering to himself. Loranil sighed impatiently and marched up to The General, punching him hard in the face and pointing his sword at the Imathger chieftain’s neck.

“Enough of this!” Loranil cried. “We want answers! What are The Imathger? Where did you get red lyrium? Who were you talking to? What is The Factory?”

“I... I...” The General stammered, staring up at Loranil with his piggy little bloodshot eyes. Loranil looked closer, however, and saw that his eyes weren’t truly bloodshot. Through them ran veins of red lyrium.

“Answers now,” said Loranil, slashing open The General’s clothing to reveal veins of red lyrium. “We know what you are.”

“No!” The General cried. “You... you will not undermine the will of The Prophet! The Conductor’s glory shall be revealed! It shall... it shall...”

Loranil punched The General again. The General shook his head, reeling from the punch, and blinked twice. He then looked back up at Loranil, this time with more clarity.

“I... I didn’t want any of this...” The General moaned.

“Then what did you want?” said Valetta calmly, kneeling down beside him. “Tell us how this happened.”

“We... we were a small bandit clan,” The General stammered. “We raided caravans around the Frostbacks before the Fereldan army forced us west into Orlais. We struggled to make ends meet, struggled to find good targets, struggled to avoid guard patrols. That was when The Prophet found us.”

“Who is The Prophet?” Loranil asked.

“The Prophet is...” The General shook his head, and then stared up at Loranil again suddenly. The red lyrium in his eyes was glowing fiercely, and his voice was far deeper. “ _The Prophet is our path to glory. He is our salvation and ascension. He shall bring forth the new world of The Conductor, The New God, The Elder One._ ”

“The Elder One?” Loranil said in shock. “You serve Corypheus?”

The General shook his head and looked back up at Loranil. “I... yes. The Prophet found us and gave us the red lyrium. It made us stronger, but it also made us... weaker. Before we knew it we were bound through the Taint to the will of The Prophet and The Conductor. The Prophet bade us to come here, to occupy the fort, so the villagers of Val Entacher could not take refuge here. He also had us acquire certain supplies from merchants, supplies he could not acquire personally, to send to him for his plans. Finally, he had us surrender all our women. They were to go with him, every last one of them, and were never seen again.”

“Why?” Loranil asked. “Why take the women?” Loranil then paused. “The darkspawn. The darkspawn in Val Entacher. They only take women, they kill all the men they come across but they go out of their way to capture women. But why? Is The Prophet controlling them?”

“The Prophet needs women for The Factory,” The General explained. He had started sweating and shaking, and there were flecks of red lyrium in his sweat. It was taking all the willpower this man had to resist the red lyrium’s control. “He takes women, he takes Mothers, and he Taints them. He corrupts them. He turns them into foul creatures that spew out Black Children for the glory of The Conductor and...” The General hissed and began to shake. “I... I...”

“Hold on, please!” Valetta cried. “Talk to me. Don’t let them control you. Talk to me about you, the real you. What’s your name?”

“My name is... my name is...” The General was clenching his teeth. “I... I can’t hold on...”

“What is The Prophet?” Loranil demanded. “How can he control darkspawn and red lyrium?”

“The Prophet is... he is...” The General could barely move now. The red lyrium crystals all over his body were growing, consuming him. His eyes were now completely encrusted with red lyrium.

“ _Fools,_ ” echoed a voice from within the red lyrium. “ _You cannot stop me. You have been betrayed. Your friends are already dead. Val Entacher will burn, you along with it. All witnesses shall be slain. The False Herald and her armies shall be crushed by the mighty black legions of The Prophet._ ”

There was one final, muffled scream from within the mound of red lyrium that had been The General, and then the giant rock shattered. Loranil and Valetta dived out of the way as The General shattered into a million shards of red lyrium that were sprayed across the room.

“I... is it over?” Valetta asked as she pulled herself up.

“Nowhere near,” Loranil said bleakly as he stood up, white as a sheet. “Corypheus is at work here. He’s having a darkspawn army grown here, using Broodmothers created from the captured women of Val Entacher. Now he’s got all of them, or at least thinks he does, he’s having The Imathger destroy the village to kill all the witnesses.”

“But what about The Factory?” Valetta asked. “It must be...” Then it dawned on her. “The mine. The one the darkspawn are coming from. Where your Inquisition friends have gone. It’s where the darkspawn army is being made. We have to get there and shut that place down.”

“The voice said that the darkspawn army was going to crush The Inquisitor’s army,” Loranil said. “But they can’t have produced enough darkspawn to attack Skyhold... but they won’t need to.” His eyes widened. “The darkspawn are going to flank The Inquisition in The Arbor Wilds. With the army trapped between the Red Templars and darkspawn, they’ll be slaughtered. Corypheus will win. The entire fate of Thedas now depends on us shutting down that mine and destroying that army.”

“But how?” Valetta asked. “There’s an entire army down in that mine. And then there’s The Prophet. How can we kill it if we don’t know what it is?”

“We’ll find out,” Loranil assured her. “But first we need to get back to Val Entacher and warn Maras and DuMarque about the Imathger attack then get to the mine. The voice in the red lyrium said we’d been betrayed. Bartis will be walking into a trap.”

***

They were lost. There was no point in denying it. Bartis, Mastrick and Slaction were lost down in the mine. They didn’t stand a chance, especially after Abbas had been taken. During their search they’d stumbled across the Avvar’s corpse, recognisable only through the painted scraps of Avvar clothing. The darkspawn had stripped the flesh from his bones and devoured him.

“We have to get a message out,” Slaction croaked. “Try and send for a rescue team, see if we can make our way out of the mine.”

“No,” Bartis shook his head. “We need... to push forwards. To stop... the darkspawn.”

“Oh give up!” Slaction cried. “We’re lost. Abbas is dead. Madame Etienne is most likely dead. The only way we stand a chance is if we try and make our way out.”

“You dare disobey me?” Bartis seethed, striding up to Slaction and punching him in the jaw. “I am your commanding officer and you will do as I say, or face court martial and execution.”

“I’ll die anyway,” Slaction said bleakly. “I’m out.” And with that he turned away and walked off.

“Pathetic...” Bartis shook his head. “Mercenary,” he pointed at Mastrick. “We press on.”

Bartis and Mastrick made their way through the tunnels, not even bothering to hold up their weapons. The fight was gone from them.

_“The General proved... uncooperative...”_

Bartis shushed Mastrick as they heard a voice up ahead. A guttural, croaking voice that sounded like knives being sharpened. It sent shivers down Bartis’ spine, but he was a Sergeant of The Inquisition. He wasn’t going to back down now. He gestured at Mastrick to follow him as he dived out from behind the corner, sword held high.

“In the name of The Herald of Andraste, I, Sergeant Altraeso Bartis, am apprehending you for-”

Bartis couldn’t utter another word before he suddenly found himself hurtled through the air and pressed up against a wall, Mastrick pinned next to him. He struggled to no avail against invisible bonds, staring in horror at the creature before him.

The creature was a darkspawn, a hurlock, but not like any hurlock he’d ever seen before. The creature’s skin was a sick, mottled black the colour of tar with patches of white that looked like disease. It wore thick, black metal armour covered in jagged, cruel spikes and held in its clawed hand a staff of twisted black wood. It’s mouth was full of tiny, needle-like teeth and it’s eyes were black and empty. This was a soulless creature.

“ _Who dares walk these hallowed halls?_ ” the creature hissed, striding up to Bartis and caressing his face with malformed hands. _“What abomination dares to corrupt my work?”_

“I am Sergeant Altraeso Bartis... of... of The Inquisition,” Bartis stammered. “I demand to know what you are, what you are planning and where you are keeping the prisoner Madame Etienne.”

The creature smiled a sickening smile that made Bartis’ blood run cold. It gestured into the darkness and two more darkspawn scuttled out of it, grabbing Mastrick and dragging him kicking and screaming into the shadows.

 _“Send him to The Imathger_ ,” the creature ordered. _“Have him imbibe of the sacred stone. He can be of use to us. This one...”_ the creature chuckled slightly, a humourless sound that echoed through Bartis’ mind. _“I shall... interrogate this one. I shall know what he knows. Then I shall destroy him.”_

“Please!” Bartis pleaded. “Don’t hurt me! I’ll abandon The Inquisition! I’ll run away forever! They won’t hear anything about Val Entacher!”

 _“Such futile promises,”_ the creature said mockingly. _“No need to hide, little mouse. I’m going to make it all better...”_

“Please...” Bartis begged. “What are you?”

 _“I am a Disciple of The Mother,”_ the creature declared. _“I am a loyal lieutenant to The Elder One. I am the mind of a man in the body of a beast. I am The Prophet.”_


	5. Standing Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loranil and DuMarque have gone into the mine to destroy the darkspawn breeding ground once and for all, leaving Valetta and Maras to lead the villagers of Val Entacher in one last battle against The Imathger

“Chevalier DuMarque!” Loranil cried as he and Valetta sped down into the village, turning the heads of the local militia and DuMarque himself. “Chevalier DuMarque! I need your help!”

“What do you want, knife-ear?” DuMarque said coldly, levelling his blade at Loranil.

“Enough of this!” Loranil cried. “Enough of these petty divisions and rivalries. I need your help. We’ve been betrayed. Bartis and the others have walked into a trap and are probably already dead. The darkspawn are breeding an army for Corypheus down in the mine and The Imathger are going to destroy the village. We need to destroy that mine.”

“Nonsense!” DuMarque cried. “How can you know this?”

“The General,” Valetta explained. “He told us. The Imathger are infested with red lyrium. They work for Coffee Ross, the big darkspawn man.”

“This... this is ridiculous...” DuMarque flustered, staring around at the villagers for approval. The villagers, however, seemed much more inclined towards Loranil and Valetta.

“I believe them.”

Everyone turned as Maras strode over, his muscles rippling, his bandage gone. DuMarque took a nervous step back as the huge Tal-Vashoth shot him a withering glare.

“You say you plan to destroy the mine,” Maras said calmly. “How? And what of the attack on the village?”

“Valetta and I took some explosives we found in Guerrier Keep,” Loranil explained. “DuMarque and I will sneak into the mine and blow a hole in one of the darkspawn breeding ground walls. Madame Etienne told me that there’s an underground lake near the mine, one that’s close enough to have flooded it once before. With luck we can flood it again and kill all the darkspawn.”

“Hmm,” Maras mused. “Sounds like a plan. And the village?”

“The villagers will guard it,” Loranil said. “Lead by you and Valetta.”

“You what?” Valetta cried. “I’m going into the spooky mine and that’s that, Lorry. Ain’t no way I’m letting you down there with just Lord Fancy Lord Man.”

“We need the smallest team possible for the mine,” Loranil explained reluctantly. “Chevalier DuMarque and I are both warriors and therefore the most likely to be able to fight our way out of trouble if we get caught. Bringing you along instead would lose us that fighting advantage, and a third person would attract too much attention. As would bringing a Qunari.” He nodded at Maras.

“I... I...” DuMarque was outraged. “This is absolutely... I...” The Chevalier then sighed. “It seems an... acceptable plan. Very well.” He stood up straight and huffed loudly. “I, Chevalier Lord Henri DuMarque de la Verendrye, shall lead a two-person excursion into this mine to save Thedas from a new Blight. My, the tales they shall tell...”

“If you say so...” Loranil sighed. “Now please, lead the way, Chevalier DuMarque. We haven’t much time.”

***

The mine was almost abandoned. Loranil and DuMarque had come across merely a few stragglers, cutting them down before they could raise any form of alarm. The absence of darkspawn made Loranil all the more uneasy. This could only mean one thing: the army was convening, preparing to march on The Arbor Wilds. That, or they’d already left. Loranil hoped it was the former. There was a chance that they’d have seen a horde of darkspawn marching across the surface.

“This place is vile,” DuMarque muttered under his breath. “No place for a truly fine warrior, no place for a Chevalier. It is foul and dirty. It is beneath me.”

“You chose to work with The Inquisition,” Loranil retorted. “You should have known you’d be expected to do things like this. Surely you must have fought darkspawn before we came to Val Entacher? Or fought in similar places to this?”

“I... I have not,” DuMarque faltered.

“Well then just imagine it’s like all the other battles you’ve fought,” Loranil advised him. “What about the civil war? What was that like? Who’s side were you on?”

“I... I would rather not talk of the civil war,” DuMarque said. “I fought... I fought for the side of Empress Celene.”

“But didn’t Emperor Gaspard himself send you to fight with The Inquisition?” Loranil was confused. “Why would he grant such a high honour to an opponent?”

“Because... because...” DuMarque was becoming flustered.

Loranil stopped, laying a hand on DuMarque’s shoulder. The Chevalier immediately batted it away and strode on through the mine.

“You didn’t fight in the civil war, did you?” Loranil called to DuMarque, who immediately froze. “How long have you been a Chevalier, Henri? How many battles have you fought in?”

DuMarque stood there for what seemed like an age, then turned to Loranil. Slowly, he lifted his hand up to his mask, the mask representing House DuMarque that he’d worn since Loranil first met him, and removed it from his face. Loranil shook his head.

“Creators,” Loranil said. “How old are you, Henri? You look like you’re fresh out of the academy.”

“I... I am 18,” DuMarque said. “When the civil war began I was sped through the Chevalier training process in order to increase the Grand Duke’s armies. By the time my training was ‘complete’, however, the war was over. I had become a Chevalier aged 18 and hadn’t even killed before. Emperor Gaspard had no use for one so young so he sent me and others like me to either The Inquisition, the Grey Wardens or on meaningless cleanup missions in The Dales. And so here I am. All I ever wanted was to make Orlais proud. That is what I am here to do.”

“Creators...” Loranil sighed. He then steeled himself and began to walk forwards. “Come, Chevalier DuMarque. We have a darkspawn nest to destroy.”

The two men strode onwards down the mine, going deeper and deeper with every step. They had been going for ages now. They had to be near Bartis, or the nest.

“Darkspawn up ahead,” DuMarque whispered. “Come. Let us slay them.”

There were three hurlocks standing around a few feet away. They hadn’t noticed them yet. The hurlocks seemed to be prodding something, some kind of creature that Loranil couldn’t yet make out. He nodded at DuMarque and they both darted forwards, ambushing the darkspawn. Their surprise attack allowed Loranil to slay one of them but he ended up locking blades with another, as did DuMarque. The two men began to duel the creatures, backing them into a corner. DuMarque hissed as his opponent cut his arm with it’s blade but the young Chevalier soon counter-attacked and killed the creature, Loranil killing his soon after.

“Are you ok?” Loranil asked DuMarque, who was dabbed at his wound with a handkerchief.

“I am fine,” DuMarque insisted. “A minor flesh wound, nothing more.”

Satisfied, Loranil turned to see the creature that the darkspawn had been prodding. It looked like a sac of black slime, pulsating and throbbing.

That was until it turned to face him.

“Creators!” Loranil cried, turning around and throwing up all over the floor. He couldn’t help himself. The writhing, Tainted blob that lay before him was a creature that had once been Madame Etienne.

Madame Etienne had clearly gone through the process of being turned into a Broodmother, but the process had not been completed. Instead, the wretched woman was stuck somewhere in between. Her skin was a foul, mottled black that excreted slime and one half of her face had become nothing but a lump of fat. One of her arms was now a writhing tentacle and her body waist-downwards was nothing but a throbbing black sac. Her toothless mouth was open in a wide O shape, as if she was screaming. She probably was.

_“Pleeeeeeeeease...”_ Madame Etienne begged. _“Pleeeease... help... meeeeeee. Help... meeee. Heeeeal... meeeeee...”_

“Madame Etienne...” Loranil croaked. There was nothing he could do. “I’m so sorry...”

DuMarque was over in a corner of the mine, vomiting. It was up to Loranil now. The Dalish elf raised his blade and swung it, cutting Madame Etienne’s head from her shoulders. The head hit the ground and burst in a shower of black goo. The body simply shrivelled up.

“Maker...” DuMarque said breathlessly, wiping his mouth. “That was... that was horrific.”

“She must have escaped half way through the conversion,” Loranil said weakly. “Come. We must... press forwards.”

***

“The Imathger have been sighted.”

Valetta and Maras stood around the outskirts of the village along with the new militia captain, a young man named Pel. He had been made the new captain purely because he was the only person during training who’d held their sword right the first try. And they were meant to be facing an army of red lyrium monsters. It didn’t look good.

“Any ideas, captain?” Maras asked Pel, who looked at him blankly. “Very well,” Maras sighed. “Come with me, into the tavern. I have some ideas we can discuss. Valetta,” Maras nodded to her. “Prepare the men.”

As Maras and Pel walked off into the tavern, Valetta turned to see the remaining villagers looking at her hopefully. She’d lived with these men for months and had never even spoken to half of them, unless it was some kind of witty retort after having been called ‘knife-ear’. And now she was expected to lead them. Die for them, if needs be.

“Villagers...” Valetta began. No, that wasn’t right. Friends? Soldiers? Comrades? No. There was nothing to say. What could she say?

“The task before us seems hopeless,” Valetta said. “The Imathger outnumber and outclass us. A mere few days ago you were all getting along with your lives. And now? Now you’ve become soldiers. You’ve been told to die fighting to protect your home. But, soldiers, I ask you this. If you can’t bring yourselves to die for your homes, what else is there?”

Valetta stood there, waiting, and slowly murmurs of agreement began to ripple through the small crowd. Then there were cheers, and soon the villagers were raising their weapons high and embracing each other. Valetta smiled. They were ready.

Valetta headed off to the tavern as the villagers prepared themselves. She needed to find Maras, he was realistically their only hope. Pel would be useful too. He might take an arrow that could have hit someone useful.

“Please... stop...”

Valetta barged into the tavern as she heard the choked cry for help, and stood there in amazement as she saw Maras strangling Pel with his huge, grey hands. The Tal-Vashoth warrior squeezed one last time and Pel’s neck popped. The militia captain fell to the ground, dead, and Maras turned to Valetta with bloodlust in his eyes.

“You,” Valetta said. “You’re the traitor.”

***

“Can... can we stop?”

“Press on, Henri,” Loranil said to DuMarque. The Chevalier’s movements had become more and more sluggish, and even after DuMarque had put his mask back on Loranil could tell he was pained. “I can hear movement up ahead. We’re not far.”

“Please...” DuMarque begged. “I just want... to sit...”

Loranil gasped as DuMarque collapsed onto the ground, his breaths growing shallower. Loranil rushed over to him and helped him lean up against the wall. It was then Loranil saw the cut on DuMarque’s arm. It was black.

“Henri...?” Loranil asked. “Talk to me. What happened?”

DuMarque slowly removed his mask again, and Loranil clenched his fist as he saw DuMarque’s face. His skin was completely white and the veins were black. He’d been Tainted.

“The darkspawn’s blade... must have been Tainted...” DuMarque said weakly. “I didn’t want... to tell you. I didn’t want... to distract you. I have to stop them. _We_ have to stop them. Destroy the mine. Kill the darkspawn. Save The Inquisition. Save Orlais.”

“We can still do that,” Loranil said. “I can.  I’m sorry, Henri. But you can’t go on.”

“Then... then you know what must be done...” DuMarque gave a faint smile and drew his knife from his belt, pressing it into Loranil’s hand. Loranil took the blade.

“Henri...” Loranil shook his head. “I can’t do this...”

“You can,” DuMarque assured him. “Just... tell me one thing, Loranil. Orlais. Did... did I make her proud...?”

“Yes,” Loranil said as tears welled up in his eyes. “Orlais, The Inquisition, and me. We’re all... so proud of you.”

DuMarque smiled softly and lay back. Loranil stood there, holding the blade, watching the soft rise and fall of DuMarque’s chest. Then, he raised the blade and stabbed DuMarque in the heart. The Chevalier gave one last expression of shock before putting his head back and slowly, peacefully, closing his eyes.


	6. Last Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loranil is left alone to stand against The Prophet and his darkspawn army. Valetta is left alone to stand against Maras and The Imathger. They are all that stands between The Inquisition and annihilation.

Maras cracked his knuckles as he moved closer to Valetta, picking up his greatsword that leant against a table as he went.

“It was you all along,” Valetta realised. “You’ve been screwing with The Inquisition since they got here. You knocked Lorry out during the battle. You stabbed Captain Chevvy in the back.”

“Yes,” Maras said simply, towering over Valetta. “And I told The Prophet that The Inquisition was here, and that Bartis would be on his way into the mine. I also just told him that Loranil is on his way there. Loranil and DuMarque will die, the village will be purged of witnesses and The Inquisition shall be crushed.”

Valetta backed away slowly as the hulking Tal-Vashoth moved closer to her. He was twice the size of her. He’d spent his whole life fighting. She didn’t stand a chance. She just needed to buy herself more time.

“Why?” Valetta asked. “What do you have to gain from working for Corypheus?”

“I left the Qun so I could choose my own path in life,” Maras declared. “So I could be free. I soon found that I was no freer outside the Qun than I was in it. Under the Qun I had to fight or I would be killed for disobedience. Outside of the Qun I had to fight or I would be killed by starvation, or sickness, or thirst. I decided to serve The Inquisition purely so I could have an income, money necessary to keep me alive. I found something better. I found The Venatori. A Venatori agent found me, picked me out, told me that there was another way. A way for me to be free, to not have to fight on pain of death.”

Valetta narrowed her eyes. “And that way was to allow Corypheus to destroy the world?”

Maras laughed. “No, foolish girl. When The Elder One sunders the Black City and becomes a god, I shall ascend with him. I will have power, power I will use to free myself. Do what I want with no-one to stop me. Make my own decisions.”

“So you’ll go from being a slave to the Qun to being a slave to poverty, then to being a slave to Corypheus?” Valetta laughed. “He probably doesn’t even know your name. He has no time for subordinates. If he becomes a god, everyone who served him will submit or die.”

“Maybe,” Maras mused. “Maybe not. But I might as well try. Enough talk, girl. Now you die, along with everyone else who stands in the way of The Prophet.”

Maras swung his blade at Valetta but the wily elf dived out of the way, the sword missing her by inches. She drew her daggers and dived at Maras but the Tal-Vashoth easily batted her aside and stabbed down at her, just missing her as she rolled out of the way. Valetta hopped up onto the bar and swiped at Maras, who dodged her strike again and countered with a massive swing from his greatsword. Valetta managed to dodge the blow but Maras’ sword struck one of the wooden beer kegs on the bar and split it open. Beer gushed from the keg and sprayed into Maras’ face, causing him to stumble back and slip on the beer that had covered the floor. Seeing her chance, Valetta dived onto Maras and stabbed him in the chest with both daggers. She kept on stabbing again and again until the life left the Tal-Vashoth warrior and he went still. Valetta stood up, staring at Maras’ corpse and the pool of blood and beer on the floor.

Then she heard a cry from the main village.

The Imathger were here.

***

Loranil walked on alone.

He hadn’t been able to do anything for DuMarque’s body, just leave it where it lay. He had to press on, to find the breeding ground, to blow a hole in the wall and flood that vile place. Wash the Taint from the walls and kill the horde. And maybe, just maybe, get out before he was caught in the flood. But that wasn’t a priority. He had to complete the mission, because he was an agent of The Inquisition and that was what he did. He steeled himself and looked down at his belt full of explosives. They would do the job. That was all that mattered.

“L-Loranil?”

Loranil turned in shock and leapt back as he saw a figure stumbling out of a side path and collapsing onto the ground. Loranil ran to the figure, helping him up, and saw that it was Jarther Slaction.

“Slaction?” Loranil said with relief. “You’re alive! What happened? Where are the others?”

“I don’t know...” Slaction said. “I just don’t know. Abbas is dead. After he died I left Bartis and Mastrick to escape but I got lost. I tried to double back, find them... and then I saw them. I saw HIM. The Prophet.”

“You saw The Prophet?” Loranil was amazed. “Who is he? What is he?”

“He’s a Disciple,” Slaction told him. “A darkspawn made sentient by The Architect back during The Amaranthine Conflict. He had his darkspawn take Mastrick somewhere, said he’d be giving him to The Imathger. Then he took Bartis somewhere to do... things. Horrible things. Evil things. We... we have to help him. Mastrick too, if we still can.”

“We will, Jarther,” Loranil promised. “We will. Can you take me to where you last saw them?”

Slaction guided Loranil down the tunnel, filling him in on everything that had happened: The Imathger, the darkspawn army, DuMarque. The two men then carried on in silence, bearing the weight of the situation on their shoulders. If they didn’t destroy the mine, all was lost.

“It was up here,” Slaction said finally, pointing to a small clearing. “I last saw them through here.”

Loranil and Slaction passed through the tunnel exit and into the clearing. It was a wide, open space. They must be in the main mine. There were a few traces of where water plants had grown after the first flood, plants that had likely been Tainted to death after The Prophet had set up shop here.

“This way,” Slaction beckoned Loranil to follow. “I... I sense something. A great pain. I think it’s Bartis.”

Loranil followed Slaction as the mage dashed off. Loranil had to respect him. Before he’d come on this expedition he’d been a bookworm stuck in his tower. Now he was dashing off into unknown danger without a second thought.

Loranil and Slaction turned a corner to see two darkspawn circling a man who lay on the floor, completely still. The darkspawn were hissing at him, waving their blades, but were yet to attack. Slaction cast a hex onto the two darkspawn, sending them reeling back and batting at the air, allowing Loranil to cut them both down. Loranil and Slaction then went to the man who lay there.

“Bartis?” Slaction said, turning the man over. It was Bartis. He was alive.

“Mage?” Bartis said weakly, but with a glimmer of amazement. “Elf? You... you’re alive. You’re here.”

“Sir, we don’t have much time,” Loranil informed the Sergeant as Slaction began to heal him. “DuMarque and Madame Etienne are dead. The Imathger are working with The Prophet, who’s built a darkspawn army to crush The Inquisition at The Arbor Wilds. I brought explosives. I’m going to destroy the mine, flood it and kill the army. You two need to get out of here.”

“No,” Bartis said. “It’s too late for me.” He lifted up his shirt to show Loranil his chest. The veins were black. “The Prophet Tainted me so he could read my mind, find out what I know, before I escaped. It wasn’t much so it isn’t spreading fast, but I don’t have long left. There’s a tunnel behind me,” Bartis gestured behind him. “It leads to the surface, into Guerrier Keep. It’s how The Imathger sent the darkspawn supplies. If you two go up the tunnel, I can destroy the mine. I’m a dead man anyway, so it won’t matter.”

Loranil looked at Bartis, the wounded man who lay before him. He had been a terrible commander, an arrogant bully who hadn’t cared for his men, only his rank. But, looking at him now, Loranil didn’t see that. He saw a leader. A changed man, a proud man, willing to die for his men.

“I... I’m sorry, sir,” Loranil said with a heavy heart. “But I have to do this. Neither you nor Jarther are strong or powerful enough to make it into the nest, get to one of the walls. Jarther,” Loranil nodded at the mage. “Take Sergeant Bartis to the surface. Ease his passing. I’m going to do what I have to.”

_“Are you now?”_

Loranil didn’t have to turn to recognise that voice. It was the voice that had spoken through The General. The voice in the red lyrium. Loranil turned to face The Prophet, and the man who stood beside him.

“Mastrick?” Loranil said, taking a step back. The Ferelden mercenary stood by the hurlock Disciple. But it wasn’t Mastrick anymore. Not really. The mercenary was now infested with red lyrium. Veins of it ran around his neck and along his arms. His eyes were glowing red, as were the veins leading from them.

“Hello short-arse,” Mastrick said, a sadistic edge to his voice. “Like my new look? Like my new boss? Come over here now, so I can give you a beating.”

“Mastrick,” Loranil said carefully. “This isn’t you. The Prophet changed you, gave you red lyrium. You know about red lyrium, don’t you? Fight it. The General could, so can you.”

Mastrick laughed. “Why would I want to change? I’m more powerful now than I’ve ever been.” Mastrick turned to The Prophet. “Orders, master?”

The Prophet stepped forwards to look at Loranil, Slaction and Bartis. Now Loranil could see how truly foul a creature he was. His disfigured, twisted features. His rotten black flesh. He was a true abomination, even among darkspawn.

 _“Kill them all,”_ The Prophet commanded. _“None shall stand in The Elder One’s path. When all the world is ruled from The Black City, all shall be Tainted into ascension. No-one can be allowed to prevent this.”_

“Very well, sir,” Mastrick said, stepping forward and twirling his greatsword, grinning at Loranil with red-flecked teeth. The Prophet nodded at his servant and turned away, heading back into the breeding ground, while Mastrick pointed his blade at Loranil.

“Jarther... Sergeant...” Loranil said slowly as he drew his blade. “Get to the tunnel. Get out of here. I’ll be fine here.”

“But-” Slaction tried to protest but a glare from Loranil shut him down. The mage picked up a protesting Bartis and carried him away, leaving Loranil to face Mastrick.

“Trying to act brave?” Mastrick taunted as he and Loranil paced in a circle, weapons pointed at each other. “Don’t even try it. You could never have taken me before, you definitely won’t take me now. You don’t even have your knife-ear girlfriend to look after you. What kind of man are you?”

“A better one than you,” Loranil said defiantly. “You were a bully and a thug. Now you’re a monster. Now I’m going to kill you, and when The Inquisition crush Corypheus in The Arbor Wilds you’ll be remembered as nothing more than a bullying, thuggish monster. If you’re remembered at all.”

Mastrick snarled and charged at Loranil, a brash move that allowed Loranil to easily trip Mastrick and send him sprawling. The mercenary recovered quicker than Loranil could act, however, springing to his feet and striking out. His greatsword narrowly missed Loranil, how scrambled back to put more space between him and his foe. Mastrick strode forwards, laughing as he went.

“You think you matter, elf?” Mastrick chuckled. “You think anything you do matters? You’re a brick standing in the way of a flood. One man against a horde. What can you possibly do to stop us?”

“Say what you want about red lyrium,” Loranil muttered. “But it’s certainly made you more eloquent.”

“I’m tired of playing, elf,” Mastrick faked a yawn. “Just lay down and die, will you? There’s a good elf.”

“Come and get me then,” Loranil smiled. “Bring it on, big guy. Come and have a go.”

Mastrick needed no further prompting. He charged at Loranil again, expected to be tripped once more. He wasn’t prepared for Loranil to charge back at him, sword out, and dive forwards at the last second. Loranil dived under Mastrick’s blade and swung his own, cutting Mastrick’s belly open. Mastrick went limp and fell to the floor in a heap. Loranil turned back to Mastrick, seeing that the mercenary’s wounds were beginning to heal. But Mastrick hadn’t been taking red lyrium as long as The Imathger. He wasn’t healing as fast, and Loranil had no intention of giving him enough time. Loranil sheathed his own blade and picked up Mastrick’s fallen greatsword from the floor, raising it above his head and bringing it down to sever Mastrick’s head. Loranil then threw down the blade and picked up Mastrick’s head. He gave the mercenary one last look of scorn before tossing the head away.

It was time to end this.

***

Valetta ran outside the tavern and saw that all was lost.

The Imathger were there in force. They’d already torn their way into the village and were making short work of the villagers. They were proud men, dying boldly to protect their home. But Valetta couldn’t see that. All she could see were people she didn’t know, people who’d hated her until it suited them, being cut down by a force she couldn’t hope to beat. All to protect a few houses. Valetta felt a single tear trickle down her face as she thought about what Loranil had said to her.

“Home isn’t a place,” Valetta whispered to herself. “It’s the people around you.” And there was no-one for her here.

Valetta dashed into the back of the tavern and found a quill, ink and roll of blank vellum. She hastily wrote down a note that she left on the table, and then ran out of the tavern. She took one last look at the horde of Imathger bearing down upon Val Entacher. Then she turned and ran away.

***

_“So you survive.”_

Loranil walked boldly up a path, a small cliff overlooking the darkspawn breeding ground. Looking down, he could see dozens of Broodmothers spewing out endless droves of darkspawn. There were hundreds of thousands of darkspawn here, all scurrying away to hide until The Prophet gave them their call to arms. This was a nightmare factory. And he was here to destroy it.

The Prophet stood at the edge of the cliff, overlooking the breeding ground. He hadn’t looked back once, but he’d known Loranil was there. There would be no surprise attacks, no second chances. This was it.

“I’m going to stop you,” Loranil said as he made his way towards The Prophet. “You can beat me down, you can hurt my friends, even kill them. But you won’t stop me. I’ll always be here to kill you.”

 _“Killing me will do nothing,”_ The Prophet said. _“You cannot destroy The Factory. You cannot destroy the horde. My army of Nephilim shall march on the surface and destroy your Inquisition. Then the darkspawn shall rule the world.”_

“Maybe,” Loranil said. “Maybe not. Either way, you won’t be around to see it.”

Loranil drew his blade and lunged at The Prophet but the darkspawn Disciple simply clenched his fist and Loranil felt himself choking, being dangled off of the ground. His blade slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor and Loranil’s hands scratched and scrabbled at his throat, desperately straining for air.

 _“Pathetic,”_ The Prophet said, circling Loranil. _“Disgusting. Look at you, you wretched creature. Struggling like a rat in a trap. I should crush you like a bug.”_

“Then... do... it...” Loranil could barely get the words out. His whole windpipe was tight shut.

The Prophet smiled a vile, chilling smile. _“As you wish, little rat.”_

Loranil’s vision blurred as The Prophet’s magic squeezed harder. Everything was beginning to fade, he realised as he kicked and flailed and struggled. He felt himself going limp.

“Loranil!”

Suddenly, Loranil collapsed to the floor and felt himself wheezing and sucking in air. As his vision cleared he saw The Prophet reeled backwards, batting at the air, striking at creatures that weren’t there. It was then he saw Jarther Slaction, holding up Sergeant Bartis and casting the hex on The Prophet. Loranil wasted no time, grabbing his sword from the ground as he leapt to his feet. He ran towards The Prophet and stabbed the creature, the blade passing all the way through. Loranil stared into The Prophet’s empty, soulless black eyes before pulled out the blade. The Prophet’s corpse fell to the ground in a heap.

“You did it,” Slaction said breathlessly.

“I did,” Loranil said, catching his breath. “You came back. You both did.”

“I... don’t leave... my men... behind...” Bartis said weakly. His skin was now completely white, his veins now completely black. He didn’t have long left.

“Come on, Sergeant,” Loranil said. “We need to get you back to Skyhold, back to The Inquisition. Maybe the Grey Wardens can help you. Now I need to do this. I need to destroy the horde. Even with The Prophet dead, Corypheus can still take control of them. I have to blow up the wall and flood the mine.”

“No...” Bartis said. “I’m doing it. I... I’m not going to make it to the surface. I might as well die doing something good.”

“Sir...” Loranil faltered. But Bartis simply smiled.

“Go with Jarther... to the surface... Loranil...” Bartis said. “That’s... an order...”

Loranil felt tears welling up in his eyes. He wiped them away and handed Bartis his belt of explosives, as well as a flint to light them with. Then he stood up straight, brought his heels together and saluted.

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Good job... soldier...” Bartis said. Then he let go of Slaction and headed over to a small path that lead to the breeding ground. “The darkspawn... won’t harm me. I’m so far gone... they’ll sense me... as one of them... now go.”

Loranil and Slaction turned and ran for the surface tunnel, leaving Bartis to weakly trudge through the breeding ground. He could feel the darkspawn voices echoing in his mind, screaming at him, telling him to submit, to become a monster. But he wouldn’t. He was a Sergeant of The Inquisition, and he had a job to do.

Bartis made his way to the far wall. Judging by the plans he’d read back in Val Entacher, the underground lake was right behind this wall. He looked at the explosives on the belt he held. They were enough. He placed them against the part of the wall that looked the weakest, and then struck the flint against the wall and lit the fuses.  Bartis just sat there, letting out one last, huge breath.

And then they went off.

Sergeant Bartis was obliterated immediately as the bombs went off, tearing a huge hole in the wall. The wall crumbled entirely within seconds as gallons and gallons of water poured into the mine, the force of the water tearing the Broodmothers into a pulpy mass. The water coursed through the mine, flooding the place entirely. All that could be heard were the shrieks of darkspawn, shrieks that were cut off as soon as the mighty lake washed over them.

***

Loranil and Slaction stood in what was left of Val Entacher.

From the looks of things the villagers had put up a good fight, but it was to no avail. The Imathger had torn the place apart. The corpses of the villagers were strewn everywhere and the village itself was a ruin. Loranil shook his head as he saw the corpse of Maras lying in the remains of the tavern.

“Valetta!” Loranil cried. “Valetta! Are you here? Please, tell me where you are!”

“Loranil,” Slaction said calmly as he laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’s over. She’s gone.”

“I... I know...” Loranil said, wiping a tear from his eye. “I... what do you think happened to The Imathger?”

“Well they weren’t at Guerrier Keep,” Slaction said. “And there’s no sign of them here. I imagine they’ve got off to The Arbor Wilds to fight with the Red Templars in the battle. A battle that The Inquisition will now win, thanks to us.”

“I know,” Loranil said sadly. “I... I know.”

Loranil walked over to the ruins of the tavern, gazing sadly at Maras’ body. It was then he saw a small piece of vellum lying among the ruins. Curiously, he picked it up and read it.

“Jarther!” Loranil cried. “I found something! It’s a note! A note from Valetta!”

Slaction sped over as Loranil held out the note and began to read.

_Lorry,_

_How you doing friend? If you’re reading this you must still be kicking. In which case, great job! Good job with killing all the beasties and shit. Hope your friends made it out ok. I know Mr Horn Head Grey Man didn’t because I killed him, but that’s ok. He betrayed us._

_Anyway, I’ve run away. Yep. Super brave me, running away from the big battle against the monsters. I’m sorry I had to leave, but I realised what you said was right. Home isn’t a place. It’s the people around you. And my home isn’t with the villagers, or with your Inquisition, or with any bunch of Dalish. Maybe my home is you. I’d like that. But I want to find out for myself. So I’ve gone to find it. I’ve gone to find my home. Hopefully, one day, if I find them, I can tell you. Then you can come be a part of it. Until then, have fun my friend. Don’t die in any battles or anything. And don’t let anyone else push you around neither. Do what I do and throw buckets at them. Or stab them. Either helps._

_I’ll never forget you._

_Valetta._

Loranil looked at the letter, smiling sadly. Then he folded it up and placed it in his pocket. He looked at Slaction and nodded at him.

“Come on,” Loranil said. “Let’s go back to Skyhold.”


End file.
